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HORATIO mm 



THE GRAVE. 



A POEM 



BY ROBEllT BLAIR 



t^itji figjit SUiistrntinns htf tjiB hst '^lihU. 



PHILADELPHIA: 
AVILLTS P. HAZARD, 178 CIIESNUT ST 

1857. 



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3^M 



6G625 



LIFE OF BLAIR 



BY S. C. HALL. 



It is a common remark, that the lives of men of letters, 
are in general destitute of incident. But it is more parti- 
cularly the case in such instances as that now before us, of 
a clergyman, who considered the duties of his profession as 
sacred, and whose abode was constantly in the country. 
But as everything which concerns him must be interesting 
to the reader, the few particulars of his life that have been 
collected, will here be detailed. 

Robert Blair was born in Edinburgh, in the year 1699. 
His father, the Rev. David Blair, was one of the chaplains 
to the king. His grandfather, Rev. Robert Blair, was one 
of the most distinguished Scottish clergymen in the time of 
the civil wars. The Poet's son was Solicitor-Gleneral for 
Scotland, and his cousin was Hugh Blair, D. D., the emi- 
nent Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in the Uni- 
versity of Edinburgh. 

Having obtained the advantages of a sound and liberal 
education, and improved those advantages by travel and a 
residence of " some time" on the continent, he was, in 1731, 
ordained minister of Athelstaneford, in the county of East 
Lothian : here the subsequent years of his life were passed, 
in ease, quiet, and contentment; in the enjoyment of tran- 
quil pleasures, in cultivating literary pursuits, in discharging 
the duties of his profession, and in the happiness of domes- 
tic life. 

His tastes were elegant and domestic. Books and flowers 
seem to have been the only rivals in his thoughts. He was 



IV LI F E OF B L AI R. 

conversant in optical and microscopical knowledge ; a bo- 
tanist and florist. His rambles were from his fireside to bis 
garden ; and although the only record of his genius is of a 
gloomy character, it is evident that habit and circumstances 
combined to render him cheerful and happy. As a preacher, 
he was zealous and animated, discovering much poetical 
imagination. He married Isabella Law, daughter of Mr. 
Law of Elvingston, a lady of uncommon beauty and amia- 
ble manners. With her father, who had been Professor of 
Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, he had 
been long and intimately acquainted ; and, on the occasion of 
his death, which happened several years before Blair's mar- 
riage with his daughter, he wrote and printed a funeral poem 
to his memory. By his lady, who survived him several 
years, he had five sons and one daughter. Our author died 
of a fever, on the 4th of February, 1746, in the 47th year 
of his age : and was succeeded in his living at Athelstane- 
ford, by Mr. John Home, the celebrated author of Douglas. 

"The last end 
Of the good man was peace!" 

This is all that has been collected relating to this accom- 
plished scholar and elegant poet; whose genius and virtue, 
though celebrated by some of the most eminent of his poeti- 
cal contemporaries, have sufiiered such unmerited neglect, 
that his name is not to be found in any collection of literary 
biography. In extenuation, it may be urged, that the life 
of a country clergyman, constantly engaged in the duties 
of his profession, in the practice of the domestic virtues, 
and in the occupation of literature, however respectable 
such a character may be, can afford slender materials for 
biography. 

Our author's passion for natural history obtained him 
the correspondence of that celebrated naturalist, Henry Bar- 
ker, Esq., F. B. S., an intelligent, upright, and benevolent 
m.m, who was particularly attentive to the improvement of 



LIFEOF BLAIR. V 

natural science, and very solicitous for the prosecution of 
useful discoveries. With Dr. Doddridge, a man whose learn- 
ing was respected by Warburton and Newton, and whose 
piety was venerated by Lyttleton and West, he also culti- 
vated a correspondence ; probably through the kindness of 
Dr. Watts, or the good offices of their common friend, Co). 
James Gardiner, who was slain at the battle of Prestonpans, 
Sept. 21, 1745, and aifectionately commemorated by Dr. 
Doddridge, in '' Some Remarkable Passages in his Life," 
published in 1747. 

The " Grave" is the only Poem Dr. Blair ever wrote — if 
we except the lines to the memory of Mr. Law. It is sin- 
gular that a poet so capable of producing great things — and 
with ample leisure and ease of mind to do so — should have 
written nothing else. Even this must have been commenced 
at an earl}^ age. The following letter, written in 1742, ad- 
dressed to Dr. Doddridge, exhibits an advantageous speci- 
men of Blair's temper and disposition, and contains some 
interesting information relating to the composition and pub- 
lication of The Grave. 

" You will be justly surprised with a letter from- one 
whose name is not so much as known to you : nor shall 1 
offer to make an apology. Though I am entirely unac- 
quainted with your person, I am no stranger to your merit 
as an author ; neither am I altogether unacquainted with 
your personal character, having often heard honorable men- 
tion made of you by my much respected and worthy friends 
Colonel Gardiner and Lady Frances. About ten months 
ago. Lady Frances did me the favor to transmit to me some 
manuscript hymns of yours, with which I was wonderfully 
delighted. I wish I could, on my part, contribute in any 
measure to your entertainment, as you have sometimes done 
to mine, in a very high degree. And that I may show how wil- 
ling I am to do so, I have desired Dr. Watts to transmit you 



\ 1 LIVE ov B j: a 1 k . 

a manuscript poem of mine, entitled The Grave, written, I 
hope, in a way not unbecoming my profession as a minister of 
the Gospel, though the greatest part of it was composed several 
years before I was clothed with so sacred a character. I was 
urged by some friends here to whom I showed it, to make 
it public ; nor did I decline it, provided I had the approba- 
tion of Dr. Watts, from whom I have received many civili- 
ties, and for whom I have ever entertained the highest re- 
gard. Yesterday I had a letter from the Doctor, signifying 
his approbatiun of the piece, in a manner most obliging. A 
great deal less from him would have done me no small 
honor. But, at the same time, he mentions to me, that he 
had offered it to two booksellers of his acquaintance, who, 
he tells me, did not care to run the risk of publishing it. 
They can scarcely think (considering how critical an age 
we live in, with respect to such kind of writings) that a per- 
son living three hundred miles from London could write so 
as to be acceptable to the fashionable and polite. Perhaps 
it may be so j though at the same time, I must say, in order 
to make it more generally liked, I was obliged sometimes to 
go cross to my own inclination, well knowing that whatever 
poem is written on a serious argument, must, on that very 
account, be under peculiar disadvantages ; and therefore 
proper arts must be used to make such a piece go down with 
a licentious age, which cares for none of those things. I 
beg pardon for breaking in on moments precious as yours, 
and hope you will be so kind as to give me your opinion of 
the poem." 

The first edition of " The Grrave" was printed at Edin- 
burgh, in 1747, consequently the author never enjo3'ed the 
luxury of seeing it in print. Since then, that which the 
" two booksellers" rejected, has been reprinted perhaps a 
hundred times, and will never be long out of print while the 
English lano'uaaie endures. It is to be lamented that the 



[, I F K (t F n I, A I K 



praise which this poem received was limited to a few friends, 
and that his attempt to extend his name was discouraged by 
the ignorance of those who did not " care to run the risk of 
publishing it." Had circumstances been either less or more 
favorable to the Poet, he might have left a still richer le- 
gacy to posterity. 

'' The Grave," however, is sufficient to place the writer 
high in the list of British poets. Its popularity is not alone 
dependent upon the fine moral tone that pervades it. Not 
only because it is in the happiest sense of the term '' reli- 
gious," has it been universally read, and as universally ad- 
mired. The language is rich, nervous, and pathetic. It 
abounds in pictures — original, striking, and always natural. 
At times he flies from the actual to the imaginative, but he 
never passes the bounds of probability. What he depicts — 
even the strong man in his agony, &c., he might have seen. 
Above all, the Poet's kindly, generous, and benevolent na- 
ture, peers out even in his gloomiest or most harrowing de- 
scriptions : — and he at all times bears in mind that the office 
of a Christian clergyman involves a high and imperative 
duty. He therefore never loses an opportunity of impress- 
ing upon the minds of his readers the solemn lessons it is 
his business to teach and inculcate. Even in those passages 
which call upon satire to co-operate with truth — and which 
sometimes verge too closely upon the ludicrous — his one 
great object is clearly paramount — to '^ warn and scare" 
from the path which alone leads to a grave that must be 
terrible. His more awful descriptions are, however, at 
times, relieved by those that are gentle as well as beautiful 
— the Apostrophe to Friendship, " The tie more stubborn 
far than nature's band," may be quoted as one of the most 
delicious in the language. The Grave is a volume of " pic- 
tures to the ear." The representations of the Poet ai-e as 
vivid as if they were conveyed to us on canvas. 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



PAINTER. 
FRONTISPIECE, CRESWICK,. 



ENGRAVER. 
. . STEEL. 



THE BELL, RETZSCH, REASE. 

FRIENDSHIF, AVARREN, STEEL. 

THE FUNERAL PAGEANT, RETZSCH, REASE. 

INVOCATION OF PEACE, RETZSCH, REASE. 

THE POET,. . .■ CORBOULD, STEEL. 

THE GRAVE, ETCHING CLUB, STEEL. 

THE FALL OF THE LEAF RETZSCH, REASE. 



Cjir (Sriirth 



Whilst some affect the sun, and some the shade, 
Some flee the citj, some the hermitage, 
Their aims as various as the roads thej take 
In journeying through life ; the task be mine 
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb ; 
Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all 
These trav'llers meet. Thy succors I implore. 
Eternal King ! whose potent arm sustains 
The keys of hell and death. The Grave, dread thing ! 
Men shiver when thou'rt named : nature appall'd 
Shakes off her wonted firmness. Ah ! how dark 
Thy long-extended realms, and rueful wastes ! 
Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night, 
Dark as was chaos ere the infant sun 
Was rolled together, or had tried its beams 
Athwart the gloom profound ! The sickly taper 
By glim'ring through thy loAV-brow'd misty vaults, 
Furr'd round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime, 

1 



T UK U K A V h; 



Lets fall a supernumerary horror, 
And only serves to make thy night more irksonif. 
Well do I know thee by thy trusty yew, 
Cheerless, unsocial plant ! that loves to dwell 
'Midst skulls and coffins, epitaphs and worms ; 
Where light-heel'd ghosts, and visionary shades. 
Beneath the wan cold moon (as fame reports) 
Embodied thick perform their mystic rounds : 
No other merriment, dull tree ! is thine. 



Ctje Inillnnrii jfanr. 



See yonder hallow'd fane ! the pious work 
Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot. 
And buried mid'st the wreck of things which were ; 
There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. 
The wind is up : hark ! how it howls ! methinks. 
Till now I never heard a sound so dreary. 
Doors creak, and Avindows clap, and night's foul bird. 
Rook'd in the spire, screams loud; the gloomy aisles 
Black plaster'd, and hung round with shreds or scutcheons. 
And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound 
Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults, 
The mansions of the dead. Rous'dfrom their slumbers, 
In grim array the grizly spectres rise, 
Grin horrible, and obstinately sullen 
Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night. 
Again ! the screech-owl shrieks : ungracious sound I 
I'll hear no more ; it makes one's blood run cliill. 



C'jir CliurrlninnV 



Quite round the pile, a row of rev'rend elmg, 
C^oeval near with that, all ragged show. 
Long lash'd by the rude winds : some rift half down 
Their branchless trunks : others so thin a-top 
That scarce two crows could lodge in the same tree. 
Strange things, the neighbors say, have happened here 
Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs : 
Dead men have come again and walk'd about : 
And the great bell has toll'd unrung, untouch VI. 
Such tales their cheer, at wake or gossipping. 
When it drnws near to witchiug time of night. 



t ItjjlUllllUlj. 



Oft in the lone church-yard at night I've seen, 
By glimpse of moon-shine, cheqii'ring through the trees, 
The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand. 
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, 
And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones 
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown) 
That tell in homely phrase who lie below ; 
Suddenly he starts ! and hears, or thinks he hears, 
The sound of something purring at his heels : 
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him. 
Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows ; 
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale 
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly. 
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand 
O'er some new-open'd grave ; and, strange to tell ! 
Evanishes at crowing of the cock. 



€\)t 'IVihnit, 



The new-made widow too, I've sometimes spied. 
Sad sight ! slow moving o'er the prostrate dead : 
Listless she crawls along in doleful black, 
While bursts of sorrow gush from either eye, 
Fast falling down her now untasted cheek. 
Prone on the lonely grave of the dear man 
She drops ; while busy meddling memory, 
In barbarous succession, musters up 
The past endearments of their softer hours. 
Tenacious of its theme. Still, still she thinks 
She sees him, and indulging the fond thought, 
Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf. 
Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way. 




rri.sinik.Drl, 



And sal us (Umii 
l|,u]. ilir sl.ipiiii;' towsliii .nvorii hank. 



,f^rinihijii|i. 



Invidious Grave ! how dost thou rend in sunder 
Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one I 
A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. 
Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! 
Sweet'ner of life ! and solder of society ! 
I owe thee much. Thou hast deserv'd from nie 
Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. 
Oft have I prov'd the labors of thy love, 
And the Avarm efforts of the gentle heart 
Anxious to please. ! when my friend and 1 
In some thick wood have wander 'd heedless on, 
Hid from the vulgar eye ; and sat us down 
Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank. 
Where the pure limpid stream has slid along 
In grateful eddies through the underwood. 
Sweet murm'ring; methought, the shrill-tongu'd thrusli 
Mended his song of love ; the sooty blackbird 
Mellow'd his pipo, and softon'd every note : 



F 15 r r, N t) S IT I !• . I O 



The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose 
Assum'd a dye more deep ; whilst every flower 
Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury 
Of dress. ! then the longest Summer's day 
Seem'd too, too much in haste ; still the fidl heart 
Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness 
Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, 
Not to return, how painful the remembrance I 



Clir ^Filter. 



Dull Grave ! thou spoil'st the dance of youthful blood, 
Strik'st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth, 
And every smirking feature from the face ; 
Branding our laughter with the name of madness. 
Where are the jesters now ? the men of health 
Complexionally pleasant? where the droll. 
Whose very look and gesture was a joke 
To clapping theatres and shouting crowds, 
And made e'en thick-lipp'd musing Melancholy 
To gather up her face into a smile 
Before she was aware ? Ah ! sullen now, 
And dumb as the green turf that covers them ! 



€\}t Barriur ling. 



Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war. 
The Roman Csesars and the Grecian chiefs, 
The boast of story? Where the hot-brain'd youtli. 
Who the tiara at his pleasure tore 
From kings of all the then discover'd globe ; 
And cried, forsooth, because his arm was hamper'd, 
And had not room enough to do its work ? 
Alas ! how slim ! dishonorably slim ! 
And cramm'd into a space we blush to name. 
Proud royalty ! how alter'd in thy looks ! 
How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue I 
Son of the morning ! whither art thou gone ? 
Where hast thou hid thy many spangled-head, 
And the majestic menace of thine eyes, 
Felt from afar ? pliant and powerless now : 
Like new-born infant bound up in his swatb.es, 
Or victim tumbled flat upon his back. 
That throbs beneath the sacrificer's knife ; 
Mute must thou bear the strife of little tongue-,, 



1' 1 1 i; W A R K I 1 1 K Iv I N ii . "J 1 



And coward insults of the base-born crowd. 

That grudge a privilege thou never hadst, 

But only hoped for in the peaceful Grave, 

Of being unmolested and alone. 

Arabia's gums and odoriferous drugs, 

And honors by the heralds duly paid 

In mode and form, e'en to a very scruple ; 

cruel irony ! these come too late ; 

And only mock whom they were meant to honor. 

Surely, there's not a dungeon slave that's buried 

In the highway, unshrouded and uncoffin'd, 

But lies as soft, and sleeps as sound as he. 

Sorry pre-eminence of high descent 

Above the baser born, to rot in state ! 



€ht jFiuirrnl |3ngrnnt. 



But see ! the a\ ell-plunied hearse conies nodding on. 
Stately and slow ; and proj^erly attended 
By the whole sable tribe, that jminful Avateh 
The sick man's door, and live upon the dead, 
By letting out their persons by the hour 
To mimic sorroAV, Avhen the heart's not sad. 
IIoAV rich the trappings, now they're all unfurl'd 
And glitt'ring in the sun ! Triumphant entries 
Of conquerors, and coronation pomps, 
In glory scarce exceed. Great gluts of people 
Retard th' unwieldy show ; whilst from the casement,*^ 
And houses' tops, ranks behind ranks close wedg'd 
Hang bellying o'er. But tell us, why this waste ? 
Why this ado in earthing up a carcase 
That's falln into disgrace, and in the nostril 
Smells horrible ! Ye undertakers ! tell us, 
"Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit, 
Why is the principal conceal'd, for Avhich 
Yon make this mighty stir ? 'Tis Avisely don(> : 
What Avould oftend the eye in a good picture. 
The painter casts discreetly into shades. 



lottnr. 



Pkoud lineage ! now how little thou appear'st ! 
Below the envy of the private man ! 
Honor, that meddlesome officious ill, 
Pursues thee e'en to death ; nor there stops short, 
Strange persecution ! when the Grave itself 
Ts no protection from rude suflferance. 



/nine. 



Absurd ! to think to over-reach the Grave, 
And from the wreck of names to rescue our's I 
The best concerted schemes men lay for fame 
Die fast away : only themselves die faster. 
The far-famed sculptor, and the laurell'd bard, 
These bold insurers of eternal fame, 
Supply their little feeble aids in vain. 
The tapering pyramid, the Egyptian's pride, 
And wonder of the world ! whose spiky top 
Has wounded the thick cloud, and long out-liv'd 
The angry shaking of the winter's storm ; 
Yet spent at last by th' injuries of Heaven, 
Shatter'd with age, and furrow'd o'er with years, 
The mystic cone, with hieroglyphics crusted, 
Gives way. lamentable sight ! at once 
The labor of whole ages lumbers down, 
A hideous and mis-shapen length of ruins. 
Sepulchral columns wrestle but in vain 
With all-subduing Time : his cank'ring hand 



F A M K . "^9 



With calm, deliberate malice wasted them : 
Worn on the edge of days, the brass consumes. 
The busto moulders, and the deo|) cut marble. 
Unsteady to the steel, gives up its charge. 
Ambition, half convicted of her folly. 
Hangs down the head, and reddens at the talc. 














t±M (m 



ws 



Clir tfairniit. 



Here all the mighty trouhlers of the earth, 
Who swam to sov'reign rule through seas of blood ; 
Th' oppressive, sturdy, man-destroying villains. 
Who ravaged kingdoms, and laid empires waste, 
And in a cruel wantonness of power 
Thinn'd states of half their people, and gave up 
To want the rest ; now, like a storm that's spent. 
Lie hush'd, and meanly sneak behind thy covert. 
Vain thought ! to hide them from the general scorn. 
That haunts and dogs them like an injur'd ghost. 
Implacable. Here too the petty tyrant, 
Whose scant domains geographer ne'er noticed, 
And well for neighb'ring grounds, of arm as shoit : 
AVho fix'd his iron talons on the poor. 
And grip'd them, like some lordly beast of prey. 
Deaf to the forceful cries of gnawing hunger, 
And piteous, plaintive voice of misery 
(As if a slave was not a shred of nature. 
Of the same common substance with his lord) ; 



THE T Y R A N T . 33 



Now tame and humble, like a child that's whipp'd, 
Shakes hands with dust and calls the worm his kinsman 
Nor pleads his rank and birthright. Under ground 
Precedency's a jest ; vassal and lord, 
Grossly familiar, side by side consume. 



/liitteri). 



When selt-esteem, or others' adulation, 
Would cunningly persuade us we were sometliing 
Above the common level of our kind ; 
The Grave gainsays the smooth-complexion'd flatt'ry, 
xVnd with blunt truth acquaints us what we are. 



iUnutii. 



Beauty ! thou pretty plaything ! dear deceit I 
That steals so softly o'er the stripling's heart, 
And gives it a new pulse unknown before, 
The Grave discredits thee : thy charms expung'd, 
Thy roses faded, and thy lillies soil'd, 
What hast thou more to boast of? Will thy lovers 
Flock round thee now, to gaze and do thee homage ? 
Methinks I see thee with thy head low laid : 
Whilst surfeited upon thy damask cheek, 
The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes roll'd, 
Riots unscar'd. For this was all thy caution ? 
For this thy painful labors at thy glass, 
T' improve those charms, and keep them in repair, 
For which the spoiler thanks thee not ? Foul feeder ! 
Coarse fare and carrion please thee full as well. 
And leave as keen a relish on the sense. 
Look, how the fair one weeps ! the conscious tears 
Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of flowers : 
Honest effusion ! the swoln heart in vain 
Works hard to put a gloss on its distress. 



?trrngtli. 



Strexotii, too I tliou surly, and less gentle boast 
Of those that laugh loud at the village ring I 
A fit of common sickness pulls thee down 
With greater ease than e'er thou didst the stripling 
That rashly dared thee to th' unequal fight. 
What groan was that I heard ? deep groan indeed I 
With anguish heavy laden ! let me trace it : 
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man. 
By stronger arm belabor'd, gasps for breath 
Fiike a hard-hunted beast. How his great heart 
Beats thick I his roomy chest by far too scant 
To give the lungs full play. What now avail 
The strong-built sinewy limbs, and well-spread shoulder: 
See how he tugs for life, and lays about him, 
Mad with his pain ! eager he catches hold 
Of what comes next to hand, and grasps it hard, 
•fust like a creature drownint; ! hideous sight I 
how his eyes stand out, and stare full ghastly I 
Whilst the distemper's rank and deadly venom 



S T H V. N a T H . 41 



Shoots like a l)nrning arrow 'cross his bowels, 

And drinks his marrow up. Heard you that groan ? 

It was his last. See how the great Goliath, 

Just like a child that brawl'd itself to rest, 

Lies still. What mean'st thou then, mighty boaster, 

To vaunt of nerves of thine ? What means the bull. 

Unconscious of his strength, to jDlay the coward. 

And flee before a feeble thing like man ; 

That, knowing well the slackness of his arm , 

Trusts only in the well-invented knife ! 



^t Inge. 



With study pale, and midniglit vigils spent. 
The star-surveying sage, close to his eye 
Applies the sight-invigorating tube, 
And trav'Uing through the boundless length of space 
Marks well the courses of the far-seen orbs, 
That roll with regular confusion there. 
In ecstacy of thought. But ah ! proud man I 
Great heights are hazardous to the weak head : 
Soon, very soon, thy firmest footing fails, 
And down thou dropp'st into that darksome place, 
Where nor device nor knowlodsre ever came. 



^jjc cDratnr. 



Here the tongue-warrior lies ! disabled now. 
Disarm'd, dishonor'd, like a wretch that's ga^rg d, 
iVnd cannot tell his ail to passers-by. 
Great man of language ! whence this mighty chanii 
This dumb despair, and drooping of the head ? 
Though strong Persuasion hung upon thy lip, 
And sly Insinuation's softer arts 
In ambush lay about thy flowing tongue ; 
Alas ! how chop-fall'n now ! thick mists and siloiuc 
Rest, like a weary cloud upon thy breast 
Unceasing. Ah ! where is the lifted arm. 
The strength of action, and the force of words. 
The well-turn'd period, and the well-tun'd voice, 
With all the lesser ornaments of phrase ? 
Ah ! fled forever, as they ne'er had been ! 
Ras'd from the book of fame : or, more provokiii;-, 
Perhaps some hackney hunger-bitten scribbler 
Insults thy memory, and blots thy tomb 
With long flat narrative, or duller rhymes 
With heavy halting pace, that drawl along ; 
Enough to rouse a dead man into rage. 
And warm, with red resentment, the won cheek. 



t inrtnr. 



Here the great masters of the healing art. 
These mighty mock defrauders of the tomb, 
Spite of their juleps and catholicons, 
Resign to fate. Proud -^sculapius' son, 
Where are thy boasted implements of art, 
And all thy well-cramm'd magazines of health ? 
Nor hill, nor vale, as far as ship could go, 
Nor margin of the gravel-bottom'd brook, 
Escap'd thy rifling hand : from stubborn shrulis 
Thou Avrung'st their shy retiring virtues out, 
And vex'd them in the fire ; nor fly, nor insect. 
Nor writhy snake, escap'd thy deep research. 
But why this apj^aratus ? why this cost ? 
Tell us, thou dought}" keeper from the grave ! 
Where are thy recipes and cordials now. 
With the long list of vouchers for thy cures ? 
Alas ! thou speak'st not. The-bold impostor 
Tjooks not more sillv, when the cheat's found out. 



Cbr JHtspr, 



Here the lank-sided miser, Avorst of felons ! 
Who meanly stole (discreditable shift !) 
From back and belly too their j^roper cheer ; 
Eas'd of a tax it irk'd the wretch to pay 
To his own carcase, now lies cheaply lodg'd. 
By clam'rous appetites no longer teas'd. 
Nor tedious bills of charges and repairs. 
But, ah ! where are his rents, his comings in ? 
Ay ! now you've made the rich man poor indeed : 
Robb'd of his gods, what has he left behind ? 
cursed lust of gold ! when for thy sake 
The fool throws up his interest in both worlds, 
First starved in this, then damn'd in that to come. 



€\ii 'llHMlltjill. 



How shocking must thy summons be, U Deatli 
To him who is at ease in his possessions ! 
Who, counting on long years of pleasure here. 
Is quite unfurnish'd for that world to come ! 
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul 
Raves round the walls of her clay tenement. 
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help. 
But shrieks in vain ! how wishfully she looks 
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers I 
A little longer, yet a little longer, 
might she stay to wash away her stains, 
And fit her for her passage : mournful sight I 
Her very eyes weep blood ; and every groan 
She heaves is big with horror ; but the foe. 
Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose, 
Pursues her close through every lane of life. 
Nor misses once the track, but presses on : 
'Till forced at last to the tremendous verge, 
At once she sinks to everlastino; rain. 




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(Tyjif jFitinl Mnmtnt. 



Sure 'tis a serious thing to die, my soul ! 
What a strange moment must it be, when near 
The journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view ! 
That awful gulf no mortal ere repass'd 
To tell what's doing on the other side ! 
Nature runs back and shudders at the sight, 
And every life-string bleeds at thoughts of parting I 
For part they must : body and soul must part ; 
Fond couple ! link'd more close than wedded pair. 
This wings its way to its Almighty Source, 
The witness of its actions, now its judge ; 
That drops into the dark and noisome grave, 
Like a disabled pitcher, of no use. 



(Kh ?iiitih. 



If death were nothing!;, and nou<Tht after deatli : 
Tf when men died, at once they ceas'd to be, 
Heturning to the barren womb of nothing, 
Whence first they sprung ; then might the debauchee, 
Untrembling, mouth the Heavens ; then might the 

drunkard 
Reel over his full bowl, and when 'tis drain'd, 
Fill up another to the brim, and laugh 
At the poor bugbear Death; then might tlie wretch 
Who's weary of the world, and tired of life. 
At once give each inquietude the slip. 
By stealing out of being when he pleased, 
And by that way, whether by hemp or steel ; 
Death's thousand doors stand open. Who couhl force 
The ill-pleas'd guest to sit out his full time. 
Or blame him if he goes ? Sure he does well 
That helps himself as timely as he can. 
When able. But if there's an hereafter, 
And that there is, conscience, uninfluenced 
And suffer'd to ppenk out, tells every man, 



THE SUICIDE. 



Then must it be an awful thing to die ; 
More horrid yet to die by one's own hand. 
Self-murder ! name it not ; our island's shame, 
That makes her the reproach of neighb'ring states. 
Shall nature, swerving from her earliest dictate, 
Self-preservation, fall by her own act ? 
Forbid it, heaven ! let not, upon disgust, 
The shameless hand be foully crimson' d o'er 
With blood of its own lord. Dreadful attempt I 
Just reeking from self-slaughter, in a rage 
To rush into the presence of our Judge ! 
As if we challenge him to do his worst, 
And matter'd not his wrath. Unheard-of tortures 
Must be reserved for such : these herd together ; 
The common damn'd shun their society, 
And look upon themselves as fiends less foul. 
Our time is fix'd ! and all our days are nuraber'd ; 
How long, how short, Ave know not : this we know, 
Duty requires we calmly wait the summons, 
Nor dare to stir 'till Heaven shall give permission : 
Like sentries that must keep their destin'd stand, 
And wait th' appointed hour 'till they're relieved. 
Those only are the brave who keep their ground, 
And keep it to the last. To run away 



T H E 8 U 1 C I D K . 59 



Is but a coward's trick : to run away 
From this world's ills, that at the very worst 
Will soon blow o'er, thinking to mend ourselves, 
By boldly venturing on a world unknown, 
And plunging headlong in the dark ! 'tis mad : 
No frenzy half so desperate as this. 



€^t Drntl) Irrrrt. 



Tell us, ye dead ! will none of jou, in pity 
To those you left behind, disclose the secret ? 
! that some courteous ghost would blab it out, 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be. 
I've heard that souls departed have sometimes 
Forwarn'd men of their death : 'twas kindly done 
To knock and give the alarm. But what means 
This stinted charity ? 'tis but lame kindness 
That does its work by halves. Why might you not 
Tell us what 'tis to die ? Do the strict laws 
Of your society forbid your speaking 
Upon a point so nice ? I'll ask no more ; 
Sullen, like lamps in sepulchres, your shine 
Enlightens but yourselves : well, 'tis no matter ; 
A very little time will clear up all. 
And make us learn'd as you are, and as close. 



t ^ntnti. 



Death's shafts flj thick ! Here falls the village swain, 
And there his pamper'd lord ! The cup goes round, 
And who so artful as to put it by ? 
'Tis long since death had the majority ; 
Yet strange ! the living lay it not to heart. 
See yonder maker of the dead man's bed, 
The sexton, hoary-headed chronicle ! 
Of hard unmeaning face, down which ne'er stole 
A gentle tear ; with mattock in his hand 
Digs through whole rows of kindred and acquaintance, 
By far his juniors ! scarce a skull 's cast up. 
But well he knew its owner, and can tell 
Some passage of his life. Thus, hand in hand. 
The sot has walk'd with Death twice twenty years ; 
And yet ne'er younker on the green laughs louder, 
Or clubs a smuttier tale ; when drunkard's meet, 
None sings a merrier catch, or lends a hand 
More willing to his cup. Poor wretch ! he minds not 
That soon some trusty brother of the trade 
Shall do for him what he has done for thousands. 



Ifntjj UtiiHfran 



Ox this side, and on that, men see their friends 
Drop off, like leaves in Autumn ; yet launch out 
Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers 
In the world's hale and undegenerate davs 
Could scarcely have leisure for ; fools that we are 
Never to think of Death and of ourselves 
At the same time : as if to learn to die 
Were no concern of ours. more than sottish ! 
For creatures of a day, in gamesome mood. 
To frolic on eternity's dread brink, 
Unapprehensive ; when, for aught we knoAv, 
The very first swoln surge shall sweep us in. 
Think we, or think we not, Time hurries on 
With a resistless, unremitting stream, 
Yet treads more soft than e'er did midnight tliief. 
That slides his hand under the miser's pillow. 
And carries off his jjrize. What is this world ? 
What, but a spacious burial-field unwall'd, 
Strew'd with Death's spoils, the spoils of animals 
Savage and tame, and full of dead men's bones ? 



DEATH UNIVERSAL. 67 



The very turf on which wo tread once lived : 

And we that live must lend our carcases 

To cover our own offspring : in their turns 

They too must cover theirs. 'Tis here all meet : 

The shiv'ring Icelander, and the sun-burnt Moor ; 

Men of all climes, that never met before ; 

And of all creeds, the Jew, the Turk, the Christian. 

Here the proud prince, the favorite yet prouder. 

His sov'reign's keeper, and the people's scourge. 

Are huddled out of sight. Here lie abash' d 

The great negociators of the earth, 

And celebrated masters of the balance, 

Deep read in stratagems and wiles of courts ; 

Now vain their treaty-skill ! Death scorns to treat. 

Here the o'erloaded slave flings down his burden 

From his gall'd shoulders ; and when the cruel tyrant, 

With all his guards and tools of power about him, 

Is meditating new unheard-of hardships. 

Mocks his short arm, and quick as thought escapes, 

Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest. 

Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade, 

The tell-tale echo, and the babbling stream, 

Time out of mind the fav'rite seats of love. 

Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down 

Unblasted by foul tongue. Here friends and foes 



DEATH UNIVERSAL. 69 



Lie close, unmindful of their former feuds. 

The lawn-robed prelate, and plain presbyter, 

Ere while that stood aloof, as shy to meet, 

Familiar mingle here, like sister streams 

That some rude interposing rock had split. 

Here is the large-limb 'd peasant ; here the child 

Of a span long, that never saw the sun. 

Nor press'd the nipple, strangled in life's porch : 

Here is the mother with her sons and daughters ; 

The barren wife ; the long demurring maid, 

Whose lonely unappropriated sweets 

Smiled like yon knot of cowslips on the cliff. 

Not to be come at by the willing hand. 

Here are the prude severe and gay coquette, 

The sober widow and young green virgin, 

Cropp'd like a rose before 'tis fully blown. 

Or half its worth disclosed. Strange medley here I 

Here garrulous old age winds up his tale ; 

And jovial youth, of lightsome vacant heart, 

Whose every day was made of melody. 

Hears not the voice of mirth: the shrill tongu'd shrew, 

Meek as the turtle-dove, forgets her chiding. 

Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave ; 

The just, the good, the worthless, the profane. 



n E A T n t! N 1 V E R S A T. . 71 



The downright clown, and perfectly well-bred ; 
The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean 
The supple statesman and the patriot stern ; 
The wrecks of nations and the spoils of time. 
With all the lumber of six thousand years. 



Cljr ((Bxilr frnrn l^nrnMnr 



Poor man ! how happy once in thy first state I 
When yet but Avarm from thy great Maker's hand, 
He stamp'd thee with his image, and well pleas'd 
Smiled on his last fair work ! then all was well, 
Sound was the body, and the soul serene ; 
Like two sweet instruments, ne'er out of tunc, 
That play their several parts. Nor head nor heart 
Offer'd to ache ; nor was there cause they should, 
For all was pure within : no fell remorse. 
Nor anxious castings up of what might be, 
Alarm'd his peaceful bosom: Summer seas 
Show not more smooth, when kiss'd by Southern wind^ 
Just ready to expire. Scarce importun'd, 
The generous soil, with a luxuriant hand, 
OiFer'd the various produce of the year, 
And every thing most perfect in its kind. 
Blessed, thrice blessed days ! but, ah, how short ! 
Bless 'd as the pleasing dreams of holy men, 
But fugitive, like those, and quickly gone. 

10 



THE EXILE F 11 U M PARADISE. 



O slipp'ry state of things ! What sudden turns, 
What strange vicissitudes, in the first leaf 
Of man's sad history ! to-day most happy, 
And ere to-morrow's sun has set, most abject ! 
IIow scant the space between these vast extremes 
Thus far'd it with our sire: not long he enjoy'd 
His Paradise : scarce had the happy tenant 
Of the fair spot due time to prove its sweets. 
Or sum them up, when straight he must be gone, 
Ne'er to return again. And must he go ? 
Can nought compound for the first dire ofi"ence 
Of erring man ? Like one who is condemn' d, 
Fain would he trifle time with idle talk. 
And parley with his fate. But 'tis in vain. 
Not all the lavish odors of the place, 
Offer'd in incense, can procure his pardon, 
Or mitigate his doom. A mighty angel. 
With flaming sword, forbids his longer stay. 
And drives the loit'rer forth ; nor must he take 
One last and farewell round. At once he lost 
His glory and his God. If mortal now. 
And sorely maim'd, no wonder. Man has sinn'd. 
Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures. 
Evil he would needs try : nor tried in vain. 
Dreadful experiment ! destructive measure I 



THE EXILE FROM PARADISE. 77 



Where the worst thing could happen, is success. 

Alas ! too well he sped ; the good he scorn'd 

Stalk'd oflf reluctant, like an ill-used ghost, 

Not to return ; or if it did, its visits, 

Like those of angels, short, and far between : 

Whilst the black d£enion, with his hell scap'd train, 

Admitted once into its better room, 

Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone : 

Lording it o'er the man, who now too late 

Saw the rash error Avhicli he could not mend ; 

An error fatal not to him alone. 

But to his future sons, his fortune's heirs. 

Inglorious bondage ! human nature groans 

Beneath a vassalage so vile and cruel. 

And its vast bodv bleeds throufrh everv vein. 



€\)t lUBiilt5 nf iiii. 



What havoc hast thou made, foul monster, sin ! 
Greatest and first of ills ! the fruitful parent 
Of woes of all dimensions ! but for thee 
Sorrow had never been. All noxious things 
Of vilest nature, other sorts of evils, 
Are kindly circumscrib'd, and have their bounds. 
The fierce volcano, from its burning entrails 
That belches molten stone and globes of fire, 
Involv'd in pitchy clouds of smoke and stench. 
Mars the adjacent fields for some leagues round. 
And there it stops. The big swoln inundation, 
Of mischief more difi"usive, raving loud, 
Buries whole tracts of country, threat 'ning more : 
But that too has its shore it cannot pass. 
More dreadful far than these ! sin has laid waste. 
Not here and there a country, but a world : 
Despatching at a wide extended blow 
Entire mankind, and for their sakes defacing 
A whole creation's beauty with rude linnds ; 



T H E R E S U L T S n F S I N . 81 



Blasting the foodful grain, the loaded branches, 

And marking all along its way with ruin. 

Accursed thing ! where shall fancy find 

A proper name to call thee by, expressive 

Of all thy horrors ? Pregnant womb of ills ! 

Of temper so transcendently malign, 

That toads and serpents of most deadly kind 

Compared to thee are harmless. Sickness 

Of every size and symptom, racking pains, 

And bluest plagues are thine ! See how the fiend 

Profusely scatters the contagion round ! 

While deep-mouth' d Slaughter, bellowing at her heels 

Wades deep in blood new spilt : yet for to-morrow 

Shapes out new work of great uncommon daring, 

And inly pines 'till the dread blow be struck. 



11 



Ctje lviijiiiriini0iieii0 d Iriitji 



But hold! I've gone too far; too much discoverM 
My fatliev's nakedness and nature's shame. 
Here let me pause ; and drop an honest tear, 
One burst of filial duty, and condolence, 
O'er all those ample deserts Death hath spread, 
This chaos of mankind. great man-eater ! 
Whose ev'ry day is carnival, not sated yet 1 
Unheard-of epicure, without a fellow I 
The veriest gluttons do not always cram ; 
Some intervals of abstinence are sought 
To edge the appetite ; thou seekest none. 
Methinks the countless swarms thou hast devour 'd, 
And thousands that each hour thou gobbl'st up. 
This, less than this, might gorge thee to the full. 
But, ah ! rapacious still, thou gap'st for more ; 
Like one, whole days defrauded of his meals. 
On whom lank Hunger lays his skinny hand, 
And whets to keenest eagerness his cravings. 
As if Diseases, Massacres, and Poison, 
Famine, and ^Var, were not thy caterers I 



®tje lUHiirrnliini. 



But know, that thou must render up thy dead, 
And with high interest too ! they are not thine ; 
But only in thy keeping for a season, 
'Till the great promised day of restitution ; 
When loud diffusive sound, from brazen trump 
Of strong-lung' d cherub, shall alarm thy captives, 
And rouse the long, long sleepers into life, 
Day-light, and liberty. . . . 

Then must thy gates fly open, and reveal the minds 
That lay long forming under ground. 
In their dark cells immured ; but now full ripe, 
And pure as silver from the crucible, 
That twice has stood the torture of the fire, 
And inquisition of the forge. We know 
Th' illustrious Deliverer of mankind, 
The Son of God, thee foil'd. Him 'in thy power 
Thou could'st not hold ; self-vigorous he rose, 
And, shaking off thy fetters, soon retook 
Those spoils his voluntary yielding lent, 
(Sure pledge of our releasement from thy thrall !) 



T H E H K S U R R E C T ION. S7 



Twice twenty days lie sojouni'd liere on earth. 
And show'd himself alive to chosen witnesses, 
Bj proofs so strong, that the most slow assenting 
Had not a scruple left. This having done. 
He mounted up to Heaven. Methinks I see him 
Climb the aerial heights, and glide along 
Athwart the severing clouds : but the faint eye. 
Flung backwards in the chase, soon drops its hold. 
Disabled quite, and jaded with pursuing. 
Heaven's jjortals wide expand to let him in : 
Nor are his friends shut out : as some great prince 
Not for himself alone procures admission, 
But for his train ; it was his royal will 
That where he is, there should his followers be. 
Death only lies between : a gloomy path ! 
Made yet more gloomy by our coward fears ; 
But nor untrod, nor tedious : the fatigue 
Will soon go oiF. Besides, there's no bye-road 
To bliss. Then why, like ill-condition'd children. 
Start we at transient hardships in the way 
Which leads to purer air and softer skies, 
And a ne'er setting sun? Fools that we are ! 
We wish to be Avhere sweets unwith'ring bloom 
But straight our wish revoke, and will not go. 
So have I seen, upon a summer's even, 



^dC. 



The n k, s u r r e c t 1 o n . SO 



Fast by the rivulet's brink, a youngster play ; 

How wishfully he looks to stem the tide ! 

This moment resolute, next unresolv'd ; 

At last, he dips his foot ; but, as he dips, 

His fears redouble, and he runs away 

From th' inoffensive stream, unmindful now 

Of all the flowers which paint the farther bank, 

And smiled so sweet of late. Thrice welcome Death ! 

That, after many a painful, bleeding step. 

Conducts us to our home, and lands us safe 

On the long-wish'd-for shore. Prodigious change ! 

Our bane turn'd to a blessing ! Death disarm'd. 

Loses its fellness quite : all thanks to Him 

Who scourged the venom out. 



12 



€\it (©LUi^ 3llnii. 



Sure the last end 
Of the good man is peace ! How calm his exit ! 
Night-dews fall not more gently to the ground. 
Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft. 
Behold him in the evening-tide of life, 
A life well-spent, whose early care it was 
His riper years should not upbraid his green : 
By unperceiv'd degrees he wears away ; 
Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting. 
High in his faith and hopes, look how he reaches 
After the prize in view ! and, like a bird 
That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away : 
While the glad gates of sight are wide expanded 
To let new glories in, the first fair fruits 
Of the last-coming harvest. Then, then ! 
Each earth-born joy grows vile, or disappears. 
Shrunk to a thing of naught. how he longs 
To have his passport sign'd, and be dismiss'd ! 
'Tis done, and now he's happy ! The glad soul 
Has not a wish uncrown'd. E'en the lag fiesh 



THE GOODMAN. 9o 



Rests too in hope of uieetiug once again 

Its better half, never to sunder more. 

Nor shall it hope in vain : the time draws on 

When not a single spot of burial-earth, 

Whether on land or in the spacious sea. 

But must give back its long committed dust 

Inviolate : and faithfully shall these 

Make up the full account ! not the least atom 

Embezzled, or mislaid, of the whole tale. 

Each soul shall have a body ready furnish' d ; 

And each shall have his own. Hence ye profane ! 

Ask not, how this can be ? Sure the same power 

Who rear'd the piece at first, and took it down, 

Can re-assemble the loose scatter'd parts. 

And put them as they were. Almighty God 

Has done much more ; nor is His arm impair'd 

Through length of days: and what He can He will 

His faithfulness stands bound to see it done. 




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